


Bed of Broken Glass

by 13beats



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Some angst, Ziam is mentioned, lots of fluff, niall and liam are mentioned - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:45:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4381424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13beats/pseuds/13beats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is a psychology student who likes to take pictures and fix people.</p>
<p>Harry is a gorgeous, guitar-toting boy who needs to be fixed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bed of Broken Glass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [timetoon (danosaurrrrrr)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/danosaurrrrrr/gifts).



> Hi! This is my very first fic so sorry for any mistakes in formatting,etc. I basically have no idea what I'm doing here.
> 
> I wrote this for timetoon in response to this prompt: 
> 
> Amateur photographer Louis likes to take pictures of attractive people and put them on his blog. Pictures of (non-famous) Harry are all over this blog, and Harry finds the blog and finds a way to confront the owner of the blog. They talk online about the pictures before meeting up. They continue to talk and a relationship builds however you want it to. Harry is really insecure about how he looks and sounds and acts and Louis tries to change that. If smut, I want it to be sweet and nice . Preferably written in third person point of view, focusing on Louis. 
> 
> I took some liberties with the prompt ... tried to stay sweet ... hope you liked it.
> 
> Title from Don't Let Me Go by Harry Styles ...

Louis loves taking pictures.  


He loves everything about taking pictures.  


The way his Nikon D800 feels cold and heavy and real in his hands.  


The way the noise and chaos of the world around him shrinks down to that one small, perfect frame.  


The way that pressing the button puts him in charge of that one small, perfect moment that nothing and no one can ever take away.  


But most of all, he likes the way it gives him an excuse to look at people just a little bit longer, an excuse to study someone that extra bit of time until he sees not just the face they show the world but the person they hide deep inside, too.  


That’s what really interests him about taking photographs. Not just because he’s a psych major—although that’s probably a part of it, too, considering the only thing Louis loves more than pictures is people—but because that’s where the interesting bits are. Once you get past the glossy, made-up surface, you get to see the flaws. The imperfections. The tiny, little cracks. And that—at least in Louis’s mind—is where true beauty lies.  


Not in the perfectly coordinated clothes or the long, long legs or the bright, shiny smile that is as much armor as it is a show of enjoyment. No, what Louis finds beautiful are the broken pieces.  


This would probably sound weird if he tried to explain it to someone, but Louis tends to think of people as puzzles just waiting to be solved. Everyone starts out whole when they’re born—a beautiful, shiny, perfect picture with no creases or tears or holes. But then life takes a few swings at them, some soft, some hard—Louis’s been on the end of enough hits to vouch for this—and the picture starts to break apart.  


Most people try to shore up the cracks, to keep the picture together as long as they can. But life is long and often hard and eventually the picture breaks into pieces. Some are soft with round edges, but others are sharp and jagged and painful.  


Those are the pieces people try to hide. But Louis’s philosophy is the more you hide them, the more jagged they become. And jagged edges cut deep. He should know.  


So when he takes a picture—one beautiful, perfect picture—it helps him see what’s broken. And more importantly, how to fix it.  


He can’t fix everyone, of course—a lot of times, he doesn’t even try anymore. He’s been hurt so many times before. But every once in a while someone comes along whose jagged pieces speak to Louis’s own, whose brokenness is so beautiful, so captivating, he can’t help but be drawn in.  


Can’t help but want to find the source.  


Can’t help but want to … help.  


His new favorite subject is a boy with long caramel curls and eyes the color of summer grass. He wears tight jeans that show off his lanky frame and fabulous ass and long, sleeved floral shirts that pinken his cheeks and make his eyes shine like lasers. He wears them all the time, even when it’s a hundred degrees out and Louis can’t tell if it’s because he knows how good he looks in them … or because he doesn’t.  


Which is why he needs to take more pictures. Lots and lots and lots more pictures. Without them, how can he figure out how many pieces he’s broken into … or how to put those pieces back together?  
He sees the boy in the fine arts building of their university every Tuesday and Thursday morning at eleven. He’s always coming out of one of the music practice rooms, and he’s always carrying a guitar case. It’s not always the same guitar case, though, and that only gives Louis more questions.  


As a subject, obviously, not as a boy Louis might like if, maybe, he had a thing for gorgeous, long haired guitar players who wear floral headscarves and string bracelets and glittery boots and far too many rings.  


But he doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. Because if he did, it would be weird that Louis waits around after his own ten a.m. art appreciation class just for the chance to photograph him. But it’s not weird, because the gorgeous guitar toting boy is just a subject and the different guitar cases are like different shirts—they add visual interest to the photos Louis takes. It’s a purely an aesthetic thing.  


It’s not like he wonders what’s different about the guitars.  


Or what kind of music the boy makes with them.  


Or what kind of pieces the cases are trying to hide—jagged or round, sharp or gently curved.  


Or what it would feel like to kiss gorgeous guitar boy. He doesn’t wonder that at all …  


Today, Louis is lurking behind one of the huge potted trees in the middle of the second floor atrium. It’s a new addition—a couple years ago, their campus was voted one of the ugliest in America and since then the school has launched a campus-wide beautification campaign that includes the addition of more trees and plants than currently exist in the tropical rain forest.  


Not that he’s complaining. The more trees there are for him to hide behind—both inside and out—the easier it is for him to take pictures. Not just of Gorgeous Guitar Boy but of the many other students who fleetingly catch his attention. And there are a lot of them. Louis is nothing if not fickle. Although he likes to think of it as spreading the love—and the psychoanalysis—around.  


He glances at his watch. It’s 11:04, which means Gorgeous Guitar Boy should be coming around the corner any—And there he is.  


Today he’s dressed in skinny black jeans, brown boots and a long-sleeved black shirt with a million tiny white hearts on it. His hair is up in a bun that shows off his truly magnificent bone structure—seriously, Greek gods didn’t have jaws like this boy does—and he’s carrying the black guitar case that has a bunch of quotations scrawled across it in metallic silver sharpie. It’s Louis’s favorite and for a moment, just a moment, he thinks about putting himself in the boy’s path and letting fate take it’s best shot.  


But he doesn’t have all the pieces yet and this is about art, not a hook-up, so he stays where he is, half-hidden behind a potted pear tree, and waits for the boy to start down the steps. Once he does, Louis follows him, camera to his face as he shoots a couple quick photos of the guitar case. This is only the second time he’s seen Gorgeous Guitar Boy with it and the first time he couldn’t get close enough to get a good shot of the words written on it. He won’t make that mistake today. He really, really wants to know what they say.  


A few more seconds pass, a few more photos get snapped by Louis. And then the boy is pushing the doors open and making his way out into the blinding sunshine. It’s only October, and it’s Dallas, so it’s still hot out. Sweltering, really, because of the humidity, and Louis can feel drops of sweat roll between his shoulder blades and down his spine seconds after stepping outside.  


Ick. He wouldn’t risk this heat for just anyone and Louis likes to think that, if Gorgeous Guitar Boy knew of his existence and his dedication, he would be flattered. Or at least intrigued. Louis can be very intriguing. The King of intriguing, in fact.  


As can this boy, with his long hair and long jeans and long sleeves. It doesn’t make sense. Louis’s dressed in Adidas basketball shorts and a Vans t-shirt and he feels like he’s melting, yet Gorgeous Guitar Boy doesn’t seem to even notice the heat. He doesn’t glare up at the offending sun like so many of the other co-eds do as they cross the quad. He doesn’t pull his shirt away from his sticky skin as Louis is doing repeatedly right about now. He doesn’t even wipe his brow and when Louis focuses his camera on him and peers through the lens, he knows why. Somehow—despite being covered from head to toe in all black on a day that has already seen a hundred degrees come and go—the boy isn’t even sweating.  


Louis presses down on the button, takes a series of six pictures in quick succession, even as he wonders if Gorgeous Guitar Boy is a vampire. Which is ridiculous—hello, sunshine, not to mention the crucifix and Star of David currently hanging around his neck—but there aren’t a lot of other explanations.  


Zombie? Doubtful.  


Alien? Maybe.  


Celestial being? Most definitely.  


Gorgeous Guitar Boy disappears from his screen and Louis quickly adjusts the angle even as he hurries to catch up. Has he mentioned, yet, that his subject has giraffe legs? Long and gangly, he eats up twice the ground Louis can cover in what feels like half the time.  


Louis is scrappy, though, and he’s not a quitter. So he keeps up, despite the brutal sunshine and his too short legs, snapping photo after photo from whatever angle he can get. None of them are great and certainly none of them feel like the money shot, but he’s patient and wily and has the advantage of knowing where Gorgeous Guitar Boy is going. On Wednesdays, he has a standing study group at the coffee shop on the other side of campus. More than once, Louis has gotten the perfect shot just as the boy opens the door to go inside.  


Maybe today will be another one of those days.  


Except he’s only about halfway across campus when Zayn catches up to him. His best friend and roommate takes one look at where the camera is pointed and says, “Stalk much?”  


Louis squawks in outrage. “I’m a photographer, not a stalker!” He aims his camera at Zayn’s face and takes a quick four or five shots, all in an effort to back up his claim, of course.  


Zayn smiles pretty for the camera—he’s such a diva—then rolls his eyes as soon as the shutter stops. “I’ll be sure to make that distinction to the police when they take exception to the shrine you’ve got going to guitar boy over there.”  


“It’s Gorgeous Guitar Boy, thank you very much. And it’s a blog, not a shrine! And I have photos of hundreds of people on there. Thousands!” Okay, thousands might be a teeny-tiny exaggeration, but it’s not like Zayn ever checks the blog unless he’s on the couch next to Louis while he’s posting stuff. Which means it’s okay for Louis to engage in a little hyberbole—what Zayn doesn’t know can’t be used against Louis.  


It’s the basis of their whole friendship, really.  


Except Zayn is smarter than his stupidly gorgeous face suggests. Which, can Louis have a moment to complain about? Because no one—no one—should look like Zayn does, plus be as smart and as talented of an artist as he is. Seriously. It’s like he’s Pandora—given a gift by every god in the Pantheon and then sent to earth to torture Louis.  


He’s said as much to Zayn before, which only evoked more eye rolls. Which is fine. Louis doesn’t need Zayn to approve of all his theories. Things would be so much more boring if he did.  


Besides, after seeing Gorgeous Guitar Boy twice a week for the last month, he’s shifted that theory from Zayn onto him. He’s also beautiful, also talented (and okay, maybe Louis knows this because, on a few, choice occasions, he’s skipped out of class early to press his ear to the door of Gorgeous Guitar Boy’s favorite practice room) and also smart (judging from the lyrics Louis can hear leaking out of the closed up, partially soundproofed room when he presses his ear to the door).  


“Do you want coffee?” he asks Zayn suddenly. “Tell me you want coffee.”  


“It’s a thousand freaking degrees out,” Zayn answers. “No one in their right mind wants coffee right now.”  


“My treat,” Louis tells him. “Plus, I think Liam said something about working today when I saw him--.”  


“Well, maybe a small iced coffee,” Zayn says as he makes a beeline for the coffee shop. And he calls Louis a stalker?  


Before they go into the coffee shop, Louis lifts his camera and takes a few more shots of Zayn’s stupidly dazzling face. Sometimes knowing not just what the broken pieces are, but understanding that they’ll never fit together again quite the way they once did, helps build the best friendships ...  


### 

It’s late and Louis needs his beauty sleep. He and Zayn have a party to go to tomorrow night and it’s not like he can afford to stand next to the Zayn (which is what he calls his best friend when he’s all dressed up and on the prowl—if you saw him, you would totally get it) without looking his absolute best. At least not if he wants to get laid.  


And Louis really, really wants to get laid.  


He’s in the middle of a two month long dry spell—more from lack of interest than from lack of opportunity, if he does say so himself. Still, if he wants to fix that (and he really, really wants to fix that), he can’t risk looking anything less than magnificent when the Zayn is his wingman. Louis might have a better ass, but the Zayn has a better everything else. Except personality, obviously. Louis is King of the Party Animals.  


He thinks about taking one of Zayn’s sleeping pills—his best friend has a medicine closet full of drugs that he almost never touches and is subsequently very generous about sharing—but the last time he took one of them he woke up in the middle of the school’s soccer field. Stark naked and covered in all kinds of unmentionable things.  


For a long time, he tried to deny the whole episode ever happened, but Zayn has photographic evidence backed up in seven different places, so there’s that ... And never let it be said that Louis Tomlinson doesn’t own his mistakes.  


No, better to hang out on tumblr until he gets tired than to risk another unfortunate sleeping pill incident. He can upload the photos he took that morning and check out some of his friends’ blogs, see what they’ve been up to. If nothing else, the hipster music blogs he follows should put him to sleep before too long. It is the whole reason he follows them, after all. Seriously, he does not understand a genre of music that’s actual goal is to make people sick to their stomachs.  


But when he logs on and checks his messages, of which there are four, three of them are from tumblr user It’s a Wonderful Life.  


Hmmm … he wonders if the blog name is ironic. He kind of hopes it isn’t , since he too thinks life is quite wonderful. 

Magnificent even, at least seventy percent of the time.  
He starts to read the messages, but something tells him to check out It’s a Wonderful Life’s tumblr first. Louis is a creature of impulse, so he follows his instincts and clicks through. When he does, he is immediately confronted by a picture of a cat hugging a puppy with the caption, Love is blind.  


Huh. Okay. So It’s a Wonderful Life is a “cute” cat photo person. Louis won’t judge. Louis is nothing if not open-minded.  


He scrolls down a little and realizes this is not a blog about cute cats, after all. Or at least, that’s not all it is. It’s a blog about … well, he’s not sure what it’s about exactly. There’s no theme, no consistency of posts. There are lots of pictures of sunsets and sunrises, of ocean waves and rainbows., of flowers and thunderstorms. There are ironic hipster song lyrics (most of which make Louis only a little sick to his stomach), even more ironic hipster movie quotes (which make him much more sick to his stomach—hipsters, man, hipsters), some fun horoscope stuff (which Louis spends far too long studying—he’s a Capricorn, of course he does), photos of weird and intriguing signs and, finally, the first post on the blog, the phone number to a Suicide Prevention Hotline.  


Suddenly the name of the blog makes so much more sense. Though he’s still not sure if it’s ironic or not. Still not sure if this blog is a celebration of life … or a mockery of it. Especially when he goes to the Who Am I section and all he finds is a quote from the movie. “Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?”  


Louis is as concerned now as he is curious, so he clicks back to his messages and opens the first of three that It’s a Wonderful Life sent him today.  


It’s a Wonderful Life asked:  


Hiiiiii! I’m sorry to bother you, but your blog has recently come to my attention. Upon looking at it, I realize that you have posted a number of photos of me and I would like to respectfully request that you remove them. I’m sorry if it is an inconvenience for you to take them down, but it makes me very uncomfortable to have pictures of myself up where anyone can see them. Thank you.  


The awkwardness of the message makes Louis’s stomach hurt worse than any hipster song lyric ever could. He switches back over to It’s a Wonderful Life’s tumblr and looks at the suicide prevention hotline post again. Then he scrolls up and looks at the posts immediately following it, lyrics about standing in the sun, about letting the past die, about cutting away everything that doesn’t feel good.  


His spidey senses are tingling, senses honed by three years of psychology classes and a lifetime of studying people. And what they’re telling him isn’t good.  


Even worse, underneath it all, is the sick feeling that he knows exactly who this blog belongs to.  


Clicking back to his dash, he reads the second message.  


It’s a Wonderful Life asked:  


This is not to say that I don’t like the photos on your blog. Because I do. A lot. You are obviously very talented and the last thing I want to do is offend you. It’s just … I don’t like people looking at me.  


And the third message:  


Oh, and I almost forgot. My name’s Harry. I’m the guy in the pictures with long hair and a guitar and I sometimes wear headscarves to keep my hair out of my face. Sorry. And thank you again.  


Fuck.  


So it is Gorgeous Guitar Boy. He’d known it from the moment he’d opened the first message, but he’d been hoping …  


Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck.  


It’s been a long time since Louis has felt this disappointed. Or this worried.  


Louis clicks over to his blog, scrolls through the photos of Gorgeous Guitar Boy-- no, Harry, he knows his name now-- that he’d posted in the month since school had started and he’d first seen him. There are eleven photos in total and they’re all beautiful in their own way.  


There’s a photo of him standing next to one of the announcement kiosks, blue guitar case slung over his shoulder as he reads a flyer about a local band performing. His sunglasses are black, his shirt a nearly transparent white and his curls are loose and flowing around his face. Louis remembers the day he took it, remembers how badly he’d wanted to see Gorgeous Guitar Boy’s—Harry’s-- face.  


In another photo, he’s sitting on a bench, gray guitar case beside him and long legs stretched out in front of him. He’s leaning back on his hands and his face is tilted up to the sun. His eyes are closed and there’s a small smile on his bright pink lips. He looks utterly peaceful, utterly happy, and it’s always been Louis’s favorite picture of him. For the first time he wonders if that serenity, that happiness, is just a trick of the camera.  


A third photo shows him in a leopard print button-down—and really, who is this boy who wears these fantastical clothes on a college campus—and tight black jeans His magnificent curls are pushed behind his ears, revealing a jaw that could cut glass, and his head is tilted down as he walks. It’s also one of the very few shots Louis has gotten of him without his guitar case, and his huge hands are shoved as deep as he can get them into the pockets of his skinny jeans (which is not very far, but Louis certainly gives him kudos for trying).  


Louis studies the pictures, these three and the other eight he has posted. None of them are invasive in his opinion, none of them are even particularly revealing. They’re just pretty shots of a pretty boy, especially since he kept any pictures he thought showed too much for himself.  


Harry obviously doesn’t agree, though, so Louis quickly goes through his blog and deletes every image of him. He’s not going to lie, it hurts a little, but the last thing he wants to do is make this boy uncomfortable. That’s not what his blog is about. That’s not what Louis is about.  


When it’s done, Louis messages Harry.

I’m really sorry that the pictures upset you. That wasn’t my intention. I’ve taken them all down and promise not to post anymore. I’m Louis, by the way. It’s nice to finally meet you.

It’s not a great response, and he erases it and rewrites it several times hoping that something better comes to him. Something cooler. In the end, though, there isn’t much else for him to say, besides I want to have your babies. But that seems a little too forward at this juncture in their relationship so he’s going to stick with what he’s got. Especially since he absolutely does not want to have Harry’s babies.  


Or at least that’s his story and he’s sticking to it.  


After he sends the message, he tells himself he should go to bed. Get that beauty sleep that’s so important. But even though he can feel his chances of getting laid slipping away with each passing second, he can’t bring himself to close his laptop. Not because he’s waiting for a response from Harry or anything. Just because—  


Another message comes through and he can’t click on it fast enough.  


Louis’s a nice name. What do you mean you finally get to meet me?  


And then another message.  


Thanks, btw. For taking the pictures down. I appreciate it   


Louis bites his lip and tries to figure out what he’s supposed to say now. He eventually settles on:  


Finally meaning I see you in the fine arts building a lot. Not because I’m stalking you, don’t worry, but because I have a class there at the same time you’re practicing. You seem cool, so it’s nice to meet you. Also, are you okay?  


He sends it and then waits impatiently for another answering message. It doesn’t come. Either because Harry thinks he really is a stalker and doesn’t want to encourage him or because he didn’t like being asked if he was okay. Louis knew it was a risk, but after everything he’d seen on Harry’s blog, he couldn’t not ask. Not when the jagged pieces are so painfully obvious.  


Or maybe Harry has narcolepsy and fell asleep in the two point three seconds it took Louis to respond to his message. Now Louis isn’t normally the type to wish narcolepsy on anyone, especially someone with as many broken and beautiful pieces as Harry has, but at this point he’ll take it over the alternatives.  


He waits a while longer, just in case Harry decides to change his mind. Not that he expects him to, but … you never know. And so Louis stays up long past his self-proclaimed bedtime of midnight, poring over pictures of Harry and clicking over to It’s a Wonderful Life again and again and again as he tries to figure the boy out. He doesn’t know quite what he thinks about Harry yet, or what he’s going to do about it if he does figure him out. He only knows that he really doesn’t like how recently this tumblr popped up—and how recently the suicide hotline number was posted.  


Six weeks ago, maybe seven. That doesn’t seem like enough time for Harry to do much more than bury the broken pieces. It certainly doesn’t seem long enough for him to have started putting them back together.  


At 3 a.m., Louis finally closes his laptop and crawls into bed. But he can’t sleep—of course he can’t sleep, not when image after image of Harry is scrolling through his brain. Not when those images mingle with the ones he saw on Harry’s blog until they all become one giant mess that makes his head throb and his stomach ache.  


He finally drifts into an uneasy sleep just as the sun is rising, resigned as he does to the fact that Zayn is going to overshadow him in every way at the party tonight. And whereas a few hours ago the thought would have bothered him, now it’s the least of his worries.  


Because it’s Wednesday and he doesn’t see Harry on Wednesdays.  


Which, again, is not normally a problem— he’s not a stalker, no matter what Zayn says. And, obviously, Harry seems to be doing okay. Still, he’d feel better if he could just see him. Just check on him and make sure he’s still okay after finding Louis’s blog.  


Which is how Louis ends up skipping class Wednesday morning and stationing himself on a bench in the Fine Arts Building hallway directly across from Harry’s chosen practice room. There’s no guarantee that he’ll actually show up, of course, but Louis has a good feeling about it. Besides he didn’t have anything better to do today anyway--it’s not like going to his geography class is actually going to help him make something of his life, no matter what his professor says.  


Considering he plopped himself down on the bench before eight a.m.—which is a sacrifice that he’s sure Harry will never fully appreciate—Louis is prepared for a long wait. A long, long wait. He even brought provisions—two packets of Poptarts (cherry, of course) and a thermos filled with Yorkshire Tea. Plus his phone, his iPad and a book that he bought on impulse a couple weeks ago because he saw Harry carrying it.  


It’s some obscure hipster novel that he couldn’t get past page seven on and he has no intention of torturing himself by trying to read it today. But it might be a good conversation starter if Harry actually shows up—and Louis actually decides to talk to him.  
After pouring himself a cup of perfectly brewed tea—he’s a tea savant, if he does say so himself-- Louis settles back with his iPad and a goal. He’s decided he wants a new tattoo and he’s not getting off this bench until he decides what that tattoo is going to be. Or until Harry shows up—whichever comes first. Priorities and all that …  


It turns out Louis vastly overestimated his bladder’s ability to hold an entire thermos of Yorkshire tea. By eleven o’clock, he has to pee so badly that he can’t sit still. But he’s afraid to get up in case he misses Harry. By eleven-fifteen, not getting up isn’t an option anymore, because Louis’s pretty sure at this point that if Harry does show up, all he’ll be able to do is pee on him. And since that is so not the way he wants this to go down, he grabs his stuff and makes a mad dash to the closest restroom.  
He isn’t gone more than five minutes—and most of that is travel time—but he makes it back to the hallway just in time to see Harry disappearing around the far corner.  


Of course.  


Because the universe hates him. Obviously.  


Cursing under his breath, Louis takes off after the boy. He rounds the corner at a run then cries out in alarm as he realizes Harry is already out the door and halfway down the steps. How is it possible that he’s let him get away without so much as a glimpse of Harry’s face to see if he’s okay?  


Determined to rectify the situation, Louis takes the steps two at a time then heads across the quad in what some might call a full-out gallop. Louis prefers to call it a gentle run--so much more dignified that way—but that would be a lie. Besides, it’s not his fault Harry’s legs are twelve miles long. No normal human can be expected to keep up with him.  


When he gets within hearing distance, he wants to call Harry’s name. But how weird would that be? Some random stranger screaming across campus at you? Most people wouldn’t appreciate that. Some people might even call it stalker behavior. Not Louis, but some people. Probably many people.  


What are the stalker laws in Texas anyway? he wonders as he runs. Maybe he should familiarize himself with them, just to make sure he doesn’t end up on the wrong side of crazy. It’s something to think about anyway.  


Still, Harry has too much of a head start. There’s no way Louis’s going to catch him unless he takes some drastic action. Before he gives himself a chance to think too much about it, he shifts the horrible hardcover hipster novel to his right hand and then chucks it as hard as he can straight at Harry’s ridiculous, boot clad, pigeon-toed feet.  


He hits the target. Of course he does. Louis has nothing if not incredible aim.  


The only problem, he sees now, is Harry does not have incredible balance.  


He goes down in a pile of flailing limbs and flying hair.  


Whoops.  


On the bright side, Louis can totally see his face now. He looks … bewildered. And a little bit like he might cry. Which only makes Louis run faster.  


He finally catches up with him a few seconds later, says a breathless “Hi,” as he towers over a prostrate Harry.  


Harry looks from his feet to Louis then back to his feet, like he’s not quite sure who they belong to. Or why they betrayed him. Then he gives a sheepish smile. “Oops.”  


“You need some help?” Louis extends a hand. It’s the least he can do since he’s the one who made Harry fall.  


“Uhhh, okay. Sure.” Harry takes his hand, lets Louis help him to his feet. Then he reaches down to pick up the book. “I don’t know where this came from. I swear my copy is back at the dorm.”  


“Oh, well, no need to worry about where it came from,” Louis says, grabbing the book and tossing it over his shoulder as hard as he can. He ignores the resounding “Oww!” that follows in favor of smiling winningly at Harry. “It’s a windy day. Things fly around. Shit happens.”  


“I … guess … so?” Harry is staring over his shoulder with a fairly horrified look on his face. “Excuse me, are you okay?” he asks a girl as she passes.  


“No thanks to you assholes.” Then she throws the book as hard as she can straight at Harry’s face. He nearly goes down again, probably would have except this time Louis is there to grab his arms and steady him.  


“That was totally uncalled for!” he shouts after the girl, whose only response is to flip him off. Rude. He turns back to Harry. “Are you all right?”  


“I think so?”  


“But you don’t know for sure?” Before he can think better of it, Louis reaches up and touches the angry red mark that covers one of Harry’s frankly ridiculous cheekbones. “I think that’s going to bruise.”  


“Yeah, I bruise easily.” Harry ducks his head as he blushes. “Sorry about this whole thing.”  


Louis stares at him in disbelief. “You aren’t actually apologizing to me, are you? You’re the one who was assaulted by a flying book. Twice.” He neglects to mention that he was responsible for at least one of those times. Two, if he’s being honest. No need to complicate things any more than they already are.  


“Yes, but, that girl flipped you off.” Harry looks miserable.  


“People are rude. You can’t let it get to you.” Making a flash decision, he bends down and picks up Harry’s guitar case. It’s the red one today—Louis’s second favorite. He takes it as a sign. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee. It’s the least I can do after the trauma you just went through.”  


“Oh, it’s not really a trauma. I’m used to it by now.”  


“You’re used to being mowed down by flying books?” What kind of life does this poor boy lead? It’s a good thing Louis found him when he did.  


“No!” Harry turns an even more delightful shade of pink. Not that Louis is noticing, because he’s definitely not. Not even a little bit. “I mean, I fall a lot.”  


“Oh, well, looks like you should keep someone around to catch you then.” And oh my God! Is he flirting? He’s flirting! He should not be flirting. Especially not with poor, sad guitar boy. No matter how gorgeous he is. Flirting is not part of the day’s mission. Louis needs to remember that. He will remember that. As soon as he manages to look away from Harry’s green lollipop eyes. And his ridiculous caramel curls. And his even more ridiculous strawberry pink lips. And his—  


Wow. He must be hungrier than he thought considering he’s comparing Harry’s features to all his favorite foods. If he’s not careful, he’ll end up licking him from head to toe, which would be completely unacceptable. As would be composing odes to Harry’s beauty. Or blowing up his pictures of Harry to hang on his bedroom walls … No, much better to nip this particular train of thought in the bud, before it jumps the tracks and crashes into everything Louis is trying to build here.  


“So, about that coffee?” he asks Harry, who has gone from looking bewildered to looking bemused … and slightly charmed. Louis takes credit for both. Being charming and confusing are just two of his many talents.  


“You don’t have to buy me coffee.”  


“I know I don’t have to. I want to. So come on.” He loops his arm through Harry’s then starts tugging him down the sidewalk before the two of them become a permanent fixture on the lawn. “I can hear a piece of caramel cake with strawberry sauce calling my name.”  


“Caramel and strawberries?”  


“I know, sounds hideous doesn’t it?” Louis answers glibly. “But trust me, it works way better than it should.”  


Louis starts to take Harry to the on-campus coffee shop, but it’s just across the street and he wants to spend more time with him. On a purely humanitarian level, of course. Not because he thinks he’s beautiful. And has a sexy voice. And really soft skin. And—  


He cuts himself off, refuses to let himself dwell on what he shouldn’t have. And wonders why there’s never a green apple lollipop around when a guy needs one.  


They end up at the coffeehouse a couple blocks from campus and Louis orders a vanilla latte and a huge piece of chocolate cake with caramel drizzle for them to split (it’s as close as he can get to actual carame cake--seriously, what is wrong with this place? Don’t they know they should anticipate Louis’s every whim and act accordingly?) Harry gets a cup of chamomile tea.  


“I’m not big on caffeine,” he tells Louis when he shoots him a disbelieving look. “Besides chamomile is very soothing.”  


“Soothing? You sound like an eighty year old woman,” Louis tells him with a snort, then immediately regrets it when he sees how Harry’s face falls. “Come on now. None of that.”  


“I could order something else if—“  


“No, you couldn’t! You want tea, you’ll have tea, of course.”  


He ushers Harry to a table in the corner, guitar case and all. The fact that they don’t bump into anyone on the way is more a testament to the emptiness of the place than to Harry’s gracefulness. But Louis’s not complaining. Not now that he and Harry are actually sitting across from each other. Not now that he’s able to see the broken pieces of his gorgeous guitar boy so much more clearly.  


They sit in silence for a minute or two, waiting for their order to come. Until Harry finally works up the nerve to stick his hand out to Louis. “I’m Harry, by the way. I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”  


Of course they haven’t. Louis is an idiot. For a moment, he thinks about fessing up. About telling Harry that he’s All the Beautiful People. But Harry’s smile is so soft, the look in his eyes so tentative, that Louis can’t bring himself to do it. Not when doing so will shatter whatever small amount of comfort Harry’s been able to glean from the situation.  


And so he doesn’t say what he knows he should. Doesn’t explain that he knows who Harry is or that he has a camera full of pictures of him. Instead, he just clasps hands with Harry and shakes. “I’m Louis. Louis Tomlinson.”  


“It’s nice to meet you, Louis Tomlinson. Thanks for coming to my rescue when I fell down. I’m still not sure what happened—“  


“Doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’re okay. And you are, right? Okay?”  


Harry blushes again. “I’m fine. I’ve fallen much harder than that. I’m really clumsy.”  


Louis doesn’t like the way he says it, so self-deprecating and embarrassed. Harry is gorgeous, talented, smart, and-- when he lets his guard down—funny. The fact that he doesn’t see it, the fact that someone has messed with him and made him feel bad about himself, makes Louis more than a little crazy. And more than a little determined to fix him, if he can.  


He tamps down on his anger, though, and after their order has been delivered, says, “So, Harry, tell me a little bit about yourself.”  


Harry shrugs. “There’s not much to tell.”  


“I don’t believe that. But here, if it makes it easier, I’ll go first. I’m Louis Tomlinson. I’m a junior, majoring in psychology. I like pop music, horror movies and people. Oh, and I like taking pictures.”  


He waits for a minute, wondering if Harry’s going to make the connection. He doesn’t seem to, so Louis lets himself breathe a little. Then tells him, “See how easy? Now you tell me something about you.”  


Harry looks panicked for a second, like he doesn’t know what to say—or like he thinks Louis’s going to judge whatever comes out of his mouth. But then he clears his throat. Straightens his shoulders. Says, “I’m Harry Styles. I’m a freshman, majoring in music. I play guitar and piano and am learning how to play saxophone. I like rock and roll, romantic comedies and babies. And I love frozen yogurt.”  


Louis quirks a brow. “What flavor?”  


“Any flavor.” Harry gives him his first real grin. “I like them all, especially covered in fruit.”  


“Fruit?” Louis scoffs. “Don’t you know the only proper way to eat frozen yogurt is covered in caramel sauce?”  


Harry looks pointedly at the plate of cake between them. “You definitely have a thing for caramel.”  


“Yeah, well, it’s a recent development.”  


“How recent could it be if you know that’s what you like on your frozen yogurt?”  


“Maybe I eat a lot of frozen yogurt. You don’t know.” Louis eyes him challengingly.  


“Do you?”  


“Do I what?”  


“Do you eat a lot of frozen yogurt?” Harry looks like he doesn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed. Not that that’s a surprise—it’s another one of Louis’s gifts.  


“Nope. But if I did, I’d cover it with caramel sauce.”  


Harry laughs then, a full-on belly laugh that’s half squawk and half guffaw. Louis likes it, almost as much as he’s beginning to like Harry.  


They spend the next hour or so in the coffee house, eating cake and talking about everything and nothing. Louis finds out that Harry grew up in Boston, but moved to Texas with his family two years ago and still feels like an outsider. He also finds out that Harry has terrible taste in music—he’s a hipster all the way—but that he’s got great taste in musicals. It’s hard not to fall for a boy who likes Grease and Dirty Dancing.  


Not that Louis is falling for Harry, because of course he’s not. He just likes to see him happy, just likes to see his eyes without the shadows that have lurked inside them ever since he first saw them.  


Maybe that’s why when they get up to leave, he asks, “Hey, do you want to come over to my place tonight? I can order pizza and we can hang out—maybe watch Grease and Dirty Dancing?”  
“Oh, you don’t have to do that—“  


“I don’t have to do anything. I want to invite you over. I want to sit around stuffing our faces and watching two of the best musicals in cinematic history. Besides, my roommate is going to a party tonight so, really, you’ll be doing me a favor if you come.”  


Zayn is so going to kill him for ditching him, but Louis isn’t going to worry about that now. Not when Harry still looks so uncertain, so undecided. “Come on,” he urges again. “It’ll be fun.”  


“But don’t you want to go to the party, too?” Harry asks hesitantly.  


“Not even a little bit,” Louis lies. But then it’s not really a lie now, is it? The party he was so interested in just twelve hours ago is suddenly the last place he wants to be. Every place is, really, that doesn’t have Harry and him sitting on a couch together watching Olivia Newton-John sing about the one that she wants. 

“In fact, if you come over, it’ll save Zayn trying to drag me to the party `for my own good.’”  


“You have one of those too?” Harry looks sympathetic. “My roommate Niall is constantly trying to drag me to places with him, too. I know he means well, but I don’t fit in the way he does. People don’t just accept me. Plus, you know, I can only watch so many frat boys guzzle beer before it gets old.”  


“Geez, Harold, don’t you know anything? You’re supposed to be guzzling beer, too, not just watching them do it. It makes everything infinitely more interesting.”  


“Oh, well, I don’t really drink beer.”  


“You don’t drink beer?” Louis demands, pretending to be a lot more shocked than he is. “What kind of student doesn’t drink beer? No caffeine and no beer? It’s not natural.”  


Harry’s face falls and he clears his throat awkwardly. “Oh, well …”  


“I’m just kidding, love!” Before he knows what he’s doing, Louis is reaching out. Patting Harry’s shoulder. Running a hand down his spine—a totally platonic, totally non-flirtatious hand. “I hereby declare my apartment a no beer zone. I’ll stop by the store and get vodka. We’ll do appletinis instead.”  


He really needs to stop making his food choices based on Harry’s features, Louis admonishes himself. It’s completely weird. Plus, it’s probably not a good thing for his platonic plan for him to constantly imagine having part of Harry in his mouth … just saying.  


He walks Harry back to campus—he has a two o’clock meeting for the Save the Dolphins foundation (of course he does). Louis thinks about going with him, but decides that might be a little bit stalkerish considering they just met. Plus, he refuses to be the clingy one in this relationship. Louis Tomlinson doesn’t do clingy.  


And yet it’s hard, not to mention extremely awkward, to say good-bye to Harry in front of the Life Sciences building. Louis doesn’t know if he should hug him or pat him on the back or shake his hand or just give him a chin nod. Harry must be having the same dilemma, because they both stand there staring at each other for a minute before they end up doing a weird amalgamation of all four things that feels so strange—and also so right—that Louis ends up running for the hills. Or, more precisely, his apartment a couple blocks off campus as there are no hills in this area. But running for more flat ground just doesn’t have the same ring to it and Louis is nothing if not a showman.  


All the way back to his apartment, Louis agonizes over what he’s doing. On the surface, it seems fine. He’s befriended sad, awkward, apologetic Harry of the sparkling green eyes and wicked sense of humor. Nothing wrong with that. In fact, some would say it was a good thing. All Harry needs is a little compassion and friendship and he’ll bloom right out of his shell. And yes, Louis is aware he’s mixing metaphors but he’s under stress, so no judgments please.  


But Louis isn’t just anyone. He’s a psych major who understands the importance of what he’s doing—and just how fast it can all go wrong. Partly because he’s waited too long to tell Harry who he is and if they end up really becoming friends (or more, though Louis is deliberately NOT thinking about that no matter how much he wants to) it will only get more awkward. And partly because he’s afraid he really will fall for Harry, which won’t be good for anyone. Harry’s jagged pieces are razor sharp and painful as hell and the last thing Louis wants right now is to risk rearranging them. At least not until he knows more about 

them—that’s how people get hurt. Badly.  


What he should do, Louis resolves as he pulls his phone out of his back pocket, is text Harry and tell him he has to cancel for tonight. That the Zayn is determined that Louis go to the party with him but that they’ll watch the movies together in a few days (after he manages to establish some distance).  


That’s what he should do. What he actually does is text Harry to see what kind of snacks he prefers right before he ducks into his favorite liquor store to buy a very big bottle of vodka.  


# # #  


The Zayn doesn’t take Louis ditching him well at all. Of course, that could be because Louis waits to do it until his best friend and roommate is all dressed up in his super-tight black skinnies, black combat boots and favorite dress black t-shirt—with a red bandanna wrapped around his neck that would look ridiculous on Louis but makes Zayn look like a Greek god. And that’s before he pulls his hair out of his ubiquitous ponytail and lets it fall around his face.  


Honestly, Louis doesn’t know why he even bothers trying.  


“What do you mean you’re not going?” Zayn demands from his spot in the kitchen doorway where Louis is mixing up his first batch of appletinis for the evening ahead. Harry is due any minute and Louis wants to make sure he knows he’s welcome. Nothing says I’ve been waiting for you like a big batch of drinks the same color as Harry’s eyes … or at least that’s Louis’s story and he’s sticking to it.  


“You’ve been looking forward to this party for two weeks!”  


“Don’t be ridiculous. You know I’m not really a party person.”  


Zayn’s eyebrows practically hit his hairline. “This from the guy who spent freshman year answering only to the moniker “Party Animal Tomlinson?”  


Louis sniffs. “Freshman year was a long time ago. People change, Zayn.”  


“Not that much, Louis. And since when do you drink appletinis? You hate apples.”  


“Don’t be silly. Nobody hates apples.”  


“You do.”” Zayn insists.  


“Yes, well, hate is such a strong word. Besides, I’m attempting to broaden my horizon. Trying new things. You wouldn’t understand.”  


Zayn rolls his eyes. “I understand plenty. You’re ditching me for some appletini drinking, Grease watching boy. Don’t think I’m not onto you.”  


“Don’t think of it as me ditching you,” Louis tells him. “Think of it as me giving you the opportunity to see Liam unencumbered by my glorious presence. You know I overshadow you when we go out together, so really, it’s like I’m doing you a favor.”  


“You overshadow me?” The Zayn is back, deeply incredulous and in full peacock mode as he strikes a pose with his arm above his head, his forearm leaning against the doorframe.  


“Now, now,” Louis says, moving him along with a cuddle and a pat on the shoulder. “No need to be so negative about yourself. You can’t help that you’re almost as beautiful as I am.” He tosses his head for emphasis. “Now hurry up and get out of here before Liam runs off with some frat boy and your whole year is ruined.”  


“Nice try.” Zayn shifts so that his shoulder is against the doorway as he crosses his arms across his chest. “But your scare tactics won’t work. I’m not leaving here until I get a look at this boy who has you all hot and bothered.”  


“I am not hot and bothered!” Louis almost shouts. “I am simply having pizza with a friend.”  


“And watching Dirty Dancing. Don’t bother denying it,” he says as Louis opens his mouth to do just that. “I saw you put it in the DVD player earlier. And we both know that’s your favorite date movie.”  


“Not this time.”  


“Every time.” Zayn grabs the shaker Louis has just put down and takes the top off just long enough to take a long sip.  


“That’s disgusting!” Louis squawks, hitting him with a dish towel. “Completely unsanitary!”  


Zayn gives him a shit-eating grin. “Told you it was a date. You never get this upset for just a friend.”  


“You better go, or I’m going to text Liam and tell him you have a long-distance boyfriend that you are totally in love with. And who is six foot five, two hundred forty pounds of jealous fervor.”  


“You wouldn’t.” Zayn reaches for the shaker again.  


“Oh, I totally would.” Louis picks up his phone, holds it threateningly in front of him. “I’ll tell him how you met over the summer and how you know it’s too soon, but you’re planning on asking him to transfer here because you can’t live without him. In fact, why don’t I just do that right now?” He pulls up Liam’s contact info, starts to compose a message. “I’m sure Liam will be able to find someone to console him rather quickly—“  


“Don’t you dare!” Zayn makes a grab for the phone but Louis feints to the left, then runs right. Zayn chases after him, and though Louis’s fast, Zayn is sneaky. He gets a hand on Louis’s back and shoves, hard, and Louis ends up tumbling onto the couch. Seconds later, Zayn is on him, trying to wrest his phone from him.  


They’re half-wrestling, half-tickling each other when a knock sounds at the door. “Come in!” Zayn yells.  


“No!” Louis says, trying to shove Zayn off of him. He’s well aware of what they look like rolling around on the couch together even though there’s been nothing between them since that one unfortunate hook-up freshman year.  


Zayn might be small, but he’s strong and wily and he keeps Louis pinned as he calls, “Door’s open.”  


And that’s when Harry walks in, toting a large grocery sack and a smile that dims considerably when he takes in the scene before him. Damn it. Louis stops pulling his punches and slaps Zayn in the balls, hard.  


His best friend makes a noise similar to that of a dying manatee—or what Louis assumes a dying manatee would sound like as he’s never actually heard one—and rolls off of him. Louis takes the opportunity to spring to his feet. Trying not to think of what a disaster his hair must be at this point, he smiles winningly at Harry.  


“Come in, come in! I’m so glad you made it! Harry, this is my roommate and sometimes best friend, sometimes mortal enemy, Zayn Malik. Zayn, this is Harry Styles.”  


He’d be lying if he said he isn’t a little nervous about what’s going to pop out of Zayn’s mouth—he had just hit the man in the balls after all—but he shouldn’t have worried. Zayn takes one look at Harry and seems to understand everything. His sensitivity is just one of the many reasons Louis adores him. In a purely platonic way, of course.  


“Good to meet you,” Zayn says when he finally catches his breath. Then he pushes to his feet and gives Louis a look that feels an awful lot like a warning. What is it about Harry that makes even people who don’t know him feel protective of him? Louis doesn’t know, but he has every intention of finding out.  


“Good to meet you, too,” Harry says, his smile back in place. Louis feels a tug deep inside at the sight of it, his cock hardening despite his earlier warning to himself to be on his best behavior. But how can he behave himself when Harry looks like … that?  


Tonight, despite the heat, he’s dressed in a blue and black plaid flannel shirt and black skinnies so tight they give even Zayn’s a run for their money. It shouldn’t be a big deal—Louis has seen outfits like it a million times—but on Harry the outfit looks almost obscene. Maybe because the jeans are so tight Louis can just make out the outline of Harry’s very generous cock (not that he’s looking—oh, who is he kidding, he’s totally looking) or maybe it’s the way the shirt falls on him. Loose in all the right places but just a little snug over his broad shoulders and way too sexy chest.  


Either way, Harry Styles looks entirely too hot for Louis’s peace of mind.  


Clearing his throat from the sudden, unwanted thickness he feels there, Louis nods toward the bag in Harry’s hands. “What have you got there?”  


“Oh, umm, I love to cook and I don’t get a chance to do it in the dorms. So, since you have an apartment, I took a risk and brought some stuff to cook you dinner. I mean, if you want me to. Or we could order pizza if you prefer. I just thought …” His voice trails off in awkward misery.  


Zayn is shooting Louis a do something glare, like he’s single-handedly responsible for Harry’s discomfort or something. Which is ridiculous! Still, he hates to see Harry like this as much as Zayn apparently does, so he grins hugely and reaches for the bag.  


“Are you kidding me? I can order pizza anytime!”  


“You do order pizza anytime,” Zayn interjects dryly. “All the time, really.”  


“And whose fault is that?” Louis demands. “If you’d just learn to cook something besides Bolognese sauce, we wouldn’t have to rely on take-out all the time.”  


Zayn lifts a brow. “You could learn to cook.”  


“Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” Louis turns back to Harry. “A home cooked meal sounds perfect. If it’s not too much trouble.”  


“Oh, no. No trouble at all.” Harry’s beaming again and Louis swears he’s getting whiplash. How the hell Harry can look like a cherubic little angel one minute and a debauched sex god the next, Louis doesn’t know. But it is driving him absolutely crazy-- in the best possible way. Which is actually the worst possible way. No wonder he’s so confused. Nothing is as it seems with Harry.  


“So, what are you making for us?” Louis asks as he takes the bag from Harry and leads him through the living room to the small kitchen.  


“Chicken wrapped in parma ham with mashed potatoes on the side,” Harry says, doing the hand motions like he’s actually wrapping the chicken up. He glances at Zayn. “There’s enough for three, if you want to stay …”  


“That sounds great,” Zayn says, smirking at Louis over Harry’s shoulder once he turns back around. “But I’ve got plans, so I’m going to have to beg off. Next time, though, huh?”  


“Yeah! Absolutely.” Harry’s shining again and Louis isn’t sure if it’s because Zayn isn’t going to be staying or if it’s because he implied this wasn’t a one-shot deal. Either way, Louis will take it.  


Louis hops up on one of the counters as Zayn makes himself scarce, watching as Harry unpacks his bag. Last thing out is a Tupperware container full of cupcakes and Louis squawks as he makes a dive for them. “Give me, give me, give me! I love cupcakes!”  


Harry hands them over with an indulgent smile. “I found a recipe for caramel cake, with caramel frosting. Since the coffeehouse didn’t have any earlier and I know how much you love it.”  


“A recipe? You mean you made them yourself?” Louis’s heart melts despite all the promises he made to himself before Harry got here. But how can he not fall for a boy who makes him caramel cupcakes and whose smile rivals the sun? It’s torture, that’s what it is. Not to mention impossible. ‘You, kind sir, are too good to me.”  


Harry flushes a delightful pink and Louis finds himself wondering what it would feel like to press his mouth to Harry’s hot skin. What he would sound like if Louis gave into temptation and licked his way across Harry’s gorgeous collarbone to the hollow of his throat. What he would taste like … better than the caramel cupcakes he was currently holding, Louis was willing to bet.  


“It’s no big deal. I used to work in a bakery in high school.”  


A bakery, huh? Louis files the information away for future use. “I assure you, it is a very big deal! Considering I can barely boil water for my morning tea.”  


“I could teach you.”  


“How to boil water?” He crooks a brow.  


“No, how to cook. We could start with tonight’s dinner. It’s a good date meal.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Harry looks mortified. He ducks his head, pretends to be keenly absorbed in contemplating the box of breadcrumbs he’s just picked up.  


But Louis knows the truth. And fuck it, just fuck it. He wants to help Harry, yes. Wants to make sure that the boy who felt the need to post the number to a suicide hotline is happy and healthy and whole. Wants to make him believe that his pictures are beautiful—that he’s beautiful, inside and out—and that he doesn’t have to hide from the world.  


But he wants more than that, too, and no matter how much he lies to himself, no matter how much he tries to convince himself otherwise, it’s still going to be there. It’s been there from the first time he saw Harry and he’s beginning to think it’s going to be there for a long, long time to come. And he’ll be damned if they start out their first official maybe-date with Harry feeling like Louis doesn’t want him.  


Because he does. He really, really does.  


Hopping off the counter, he hooks two fingers in the back of Harry’s waistband and tugs. As he found out earlier, Harry’s balance isn’t that great at the best of times so he yields easily, let’s Louis pull him closer, until his back rests against Louis’s chest.  


He’s taller than Louis, but he fits against him perfectly, his body harder and curvier than all those loose, long-sleeved shirts reveal. And he smells ridiculously good, too, like cinnamon and amber and dark, sweet black currant. Louis’s mouth waters and for a moment he wonders what it would be like to be on his knees in front of Harry.  


His cock grows impossibly harder at the thought and Louis tells himself to pull away before things get too far out of his control. But then Harry moans and presses himself more firmly back against him, until only the thin layer of their clothing separates them. And Louis is lost. He’s fucking lost.  


And it feels fucking fantastic.  


Pushing up to his tiptoes, he buries his face in the curve where Harry’s neck meets his shoulder and takes one long, deep, shuddering breath. Harry’s scent sneaks inside him, burrows deep beneath his skin and Louis’s hands tremble—actually tremble—as he clutches at Harry’s hips.  


As he strokes his fingers over Harry’s surprisingly lush ass.  


As he presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to Harry’s shoulder and neck and jaw.  


Harry starts to turn, but Louis holds him in place with a firm hand on his tummy. “Not yet,” he tells him, his voice husky with arousal and something more. Something that tells him—as if he didn’t know already—that this is not the casual hook-up he’d originally envisaged when he’d planned on going to that party tonight.  


No, it’s something so much better.  


“It’s okay. You—“ Harry’s voice breaks. “You don’t have to look at me.”  


“Is that what you think?” Louis demands. “That I don’t want to see you?”  


Harry shrugs, but his head is bent and his body—which had been so hot and pliant just a few moments before—has gone cold and rigid.  


“Harry, I love nothing more than to look at you. It’s kind of an obsession of mine, if I’m being totally honest.”  


“I don’t—I don’t understand.”  


“I know.” Louis removes his hands from Harry’s hip and stomach, then steps out from behind him. “Come here,” he tells him, holding a hand out to this beautiful, beautiful boy who has somehow managed to sneak deep inside him with nothing more than a smile and a few, soft, sweet words.  


Harry takes his hand without question and that just fucks Louis up a little more, just drags him a little deeper into this thing he doesn’t quite understand.  


“I want to show you something,” he says as he leads Harry into his bedroom. “But before I do, I want to apologize. I should have told you sooner.”  


“Told me what?” Harry asks, looking more uncertain with each second that passes. But he’s still here, still holding onto Louis’s hand like it’s a lifeline. That has to count for something, right?  


Louis grabs his laptop from its spot on his dresser, then pushes Harry toward his bed. As he settles down next to him, he tries to ignore how good Harry looks sitting cross-legged on his comforter, his knees poking through the holes in his jeans. And how much he wants to see him doing the same thing, only naked. And maybe with his hair spread across Louis’s pillow. And—  


He stops himself before he goes down a path that ends with Harry’s dick in his mouth. Or Louis inside of Harry, making him cry out as he pumps his orgasm out of him one thrust at a time.  


Fuck. He really wants to say to hell with his blog, to hell with anything that doesn’t involve pleasuring Harry for hours. But he can’t do that, can’t let himself take Harry if he doesn’t know everything that Louis knows. Maybe he’s being crazy, maybe he’ll regret it in the morning—or as soon as Harry walks out on him, really—but it’s not like he has a choice. Subterfuge has never been his thing. Besides, Louis wants to help Harry not hurt him. He last thing he ever wants to do is dim this boy’s gorgeous, glorious light.  


And so he opens his computer, pulls up a selection of his photos of Harry. Then turns the computer around so the other boy can see what he’s done.  


For long seconds, Harry doesn’t say anything. He just stares at the photos, some of which Louis had had up on his tumblr and some of which he’s never shown anyone before, not even Zayn. Because they’re personal. Because, when he looks at them, he thinks he sees the edges of Harry’s most broken pieces.  


“I don’t—Louis?” Harry raises bewildered green eyes to study Louis’s face. “I don’t understand.”  


“Yes, you do.” He wants to make excuses, wants to defend himself, but what is there to say, really? He brought Harry here without ever telling him the whole story.  


“You’re … you’re the one who’s been taking pictures of me?”  


“Yes.”  


“But you—“ Harry stops, reaches for Louis’s laptop. Scrolls through the dozens upon dozens of pictures of him that Louis has stored there. He stops at one of Louis’s favorites and stares at it for long seconds. Louis wants to know what he sees when he looks at the photo, but isn’t sure he has the right to ask.  


So instead, he tells Harry what he sees.  


“That’s my favorite photo of you.” His voice is low, aching, and it nearly breaks under the weight of everything that has been left unsaid between them. But Louis doesn’t let it Louis holds firm, because he knows if he breaks, then so will Harry and that is not acceptable. Not here, not now, not ever if Louis has his way.  


“Is this some kind of joke?” Harry demands and there’s a desperation to his tone that makes Louis hurt all the more. “Is that why you invited me over here tonight? To humiliate me?” The look on his face says it’s nothing more than he expects.  


“No. No, of course not.” Louis tries to get Harry to look at him, but Harry won’t. He’s too busy staring disgustedly at the photo of himself.  


“Then why am I here, Louis? Why all the subterfuge? What did you hope to gain by getting me here tonight? I still don’t want you to use my photos on your tumblr and I’m not going to change my mind.”  


“I wasn’t going to ask that, I swear.”  


“Then what were you going to ask? Because I don’t get it. If you’re not trying to fuck with me, then I don’t understand what you want.”  


“How is what I want not completely obvious?” Louis demands incredulously. “Do you not see yourself in those pictures? Do you not see how beautiful you are?”  


“I’m not—“  


“You are.  


“I’m not!” Harry says more forcefully. “I know exactly what I am and the last thing I am is beautiful.”  


“Who told you that?” Louis demands. “Who broke you so badly that you actually believe that?”  


“Fuck you.” Harry pushes off the bed, heads for the door. Louis gets there first, blocks his way. The last thing he wants to do is keep Harry here if he wants to go, but he can’t let him go. Not like this, when his head is all messed up and it’s Louis’s fault.  


“Get out of my way, Louis.” Harry is trying to sound tough, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sounds so, so fragile and it makes Louis hurt in a way he’s never felt before.  


“In a minute. I’ll let you go in a minute, but I need you to let me show you something first.”  


“You’ve shown me enough.”  


“Not yet I haven’t.” Louis wraps a careful arm around Harry’s waist, waits for the other boy to shove him away. When Harry just stands there, not yielding but not fighting either, Louis takes it as a win. And pushes and tugs at him until they are both standing in front of the long mirror Louis has hanging on one of his closet doors.  


He prods Harry until he stands in front of him, then waits several long, tense seconds until Harry’s eyes meet his in the mirror.  


And then he opens himself up, let’s Harry see a little of his own broken pieces.  


“Look at you,” he says. “Just look at you.”  


“I don’t want—“  


For the second time that night, Louis stops Harry from turning around with a firm hand against his tummy. “I wanted you from the moment I first saw you. It was the second week of school and you were wearing two red flannel shirts despite the fact that it was over a hundred degrees out. You looked so good and I wanted nothing more than to take a bite out of you.” He smiles a little, watches Harry’s eyes as they trace his lips in the mirror. “I still do.”  


Harry makes a startled little sound and Louis takes a chance. He leans forward and presses a slow, lingering kiss to the skin right behind Harry’s left ear. Harry gasps, shudders, but he doesn’t move away, so Louis does it again. And again.  


“It’s not just because you’re gorgeous—although you are. My gorgeous guitar boy,” he says with a little laugh. “That’s what I used to call you in my head, before I learned your name. And it’s not that you’re on another level of charming, though that’s certainly true too.”  


Harry shakes his head. “I’m not—“  


“You are. With your obscene lips and your goofy laugh and the way you look at whoever you’re talking to, like they’re the most important person in the world. It’s charming as fuck. And before you try to protest again, let me just explain that I’m not the only one you’ve charmed. You also charmed Zayn when you got here and that’s pretty much impossible to do.  


“But that isn’t what I see when I look at you. It isn’t what makes me want you.” He leans forward a little more, presses a trail of hot kisses down Harry’s neck. “God, you taste good. Like strawberries and honey and rich, smooth caramel.”  


Harry makes a desperate sound deep in his throat, tilts his head back to give Louis better access. And he wants to take it, God does he want to take it. But not until Harry understands his own worth. Not until Harry sees just how special he is.  


“You know what does it for me?” he asks, his mouth pressed against the side of Harry’s throat. “What makes me think about you, makes me dream about you? Makes me ditch my friends and skip parties so that I can be with you?”  


It’s a rhetorical question—he doesn’t expect an answer and Harry doesn’t give him one. But he doesn’t move away either. Instead, he just waits, body quivering and eyes more vulnerable than Louis has ever seen them.  


“It’s these,” he says, sweeping his thumb over Harry’s eyes.  


“You like green eyes?” Harry asks skeptically.  


“I like your green eyes. I like how you look at the world—from the quotes you have on your guitar case to the lyrics you write—“  


“Wait. How do you know I write lyrics?”  


Louis shifts, uncomfortable for the first time. “I may or may not spend part of every Tuesday and Thursday with my ear pressed up against the door of your practice room. Maybe.”  


“You eavesdropped on me?”  


“I prefer to think about it as admiring your talent.”  


“You can think of it any way you want, but it’s still eavesdropping.”  


“It is. Just like the crazy amount of pictures I’ve taken of you is still creeping. I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. But I’m not sorry that I saw you all those weeks ago. And I’m not sorry that I stalked you until I could read the quotes on your guitar case and hear the lyrics of your songs. Because you’re beautiful, Harry, inside and out. If you take nothing else away from tonight, please take that.”  


Harry doesn’t say anything for long moments. Instead, he just studies Louis in the mirror. And studies him. And studies him. Until Louis is squirming and feeling uncomfortable and wondering just how many of his own jagged edges are visible.  


“You’re ridiculous,” he finally says just as Louis is about to give up hope.  


“Totally ridiculous,” he agrees.  


“Not to mention a bit of a stalker.”  


“I know, I know. I’m sorry about that,” he says with a wince.  


“And I still have no idea what you see in me—“  


“I’ll show you,” Louis vows. “Just give me a chance and I’ll show you all the wonderful pieces of you.”  


For the first time, Harry’s gaze falters and Louis sees the tears before he looks away.  


“Don’t cry,” he says, turning Harry around to face him for the first time since this conversation began. “Please don’t cry, love.”  


“I don’t want you to take pictures of me anymore.”  


“Okay.” It pains him to agree, but Louis does it. Because now that he knows, Harry has the right to choose. “But—“  


“At least for now. I’ll let you know when—if—I’m ready to try and go there.”  


“Okay.” This time it sounds much stronger and is accompanied by a firm nod. Because Harry could ask for the moon right now and he’d do his best to give it to him. Because he understands, better than most, what it is to look in the mirror or into a photograph and not know the person staring back at you.  


“And you have to stop following me around the fine arts building. It’s embarrassing that I never noticed before and it’s going to be weirder still if you keep doing it now that we’re …” His voice trails off as he gestures awkwardly between them.  


Louis fills in the blank for him, because his own broken pieces need to know. “Now that we’re together?”  


Harry grins for the first time in what feels like forever and it lights up the room. It definitely lights up Louis. “Let’s finish the date first. A little cuddling, some Dirty Dancing … if you play your cards right, maybe I’ll let you kiss me.”  


“Oh, yeah?” Louis wraps a hand around the back of Harry’s neck, pulls him down so that their faces are only a few scant centimeters from each other.  


“Yes.” Harry sounds prim, but his smile is filthy as he closes the gap between them and takes Louis’s mouth with his own. It’s the most forward he’s ever been and Louis finds it’s quite a turn-on. In fact, when Harry finally pulls away, Louis’s dizzy from lack of oxygen. Or, more likely, from the fact that he’s got this beautiful boy in his arms.  
And though Harry’s still got an awful lot of broken pieces, and Louis's got a lot of unanswered questions (and some broken pieces, too) that's okay. The key, Louis’s learned after getting up close and personal with Harry tonight, is not to try to put the picture back the way it once was. The key is to turn the pieces into building blocks and make something new, something better.  


He doesn’t know if this thing with Harry is one of those new, better things … they’ve barely made it through a first date. But for the first time in what feels like forever, he wants to find out. And that’s more than enough for now.


End file.
